


Keep It Down

by INeverHadMyInternetPhase



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Couch Cuddles, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, No Angst, but essentially just 13k of getting together, noisy neighbour AU, there isn't any other plot going on xD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13527066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INeverHadMyInternetPhase/pseuds/INeverHadMyInternetPhase
Summary: Phil wants a quiet life. That's all he's asked for. He doesn't want the new neighbour to blast music at him at 2 in the morning, so if he would kindly stop then that's all Phil needs





	Keep It Down

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this because I’ve been stuck ill in bed for over a month, my arms ache from blood tests, I can’t focus on my ongoing projects, and my neighbours won’t stop blaring music. I am in need of fluff. So I wrote it for myself xD
> 
> Thank you to @agingphangirl and as ever my wonderful @charlottekath for both letting me ramble about this as I wrote it
> 
> Originally, I wanted to have In My Way finished before the New Year. But it is proving more difficult than I thought, and I wanted to post something for Phil’s birthday, so here we have this instead ^_^

A quiet life. That’s all Phil wants. A quiet life tucked away in his simple little flat, not too big, not too small, though he’s lucky to be able to afford London at all, he knows. Simple bedroom and lounge with an open-plan kitchen, bathroom tucked away around a corner, nothing fancy, but not too shabby either. His laptop open, editing a file his boss sent him earlier that day but Phil hadn’t bothered to look at until now.

And the walls shaking around him with the blare of the bass from above.

Phil groans, hands falling away from his mouse to instead massage his temples. It’s been _hours_. Hours of endless music throbbing through his flat, thick and loud and _ceaseless_. Annoying barely covers it. It isn’t even _late_ , and it’s a Thursday. Who parties on a Thursday?

Phil tries to be a nice neighbour, he really tries. He brings in the mail if it’s been left outside, he helps people with their shopping bags if he sees them struggling, and he’s been known to carry heavy books up the endless flights of stairs for his friend across the hall when the lift in their building was out of service. He’s friendly to everyone he meets, largely because he doesn’t really know anyone else living here, not a local from this city. Plus, Phil doesn’t like to leave people in a worse mood than when he meets them.

But there is a line. And his line is turning out to be blasting music at 8pm on a _Thursday_.

Phil gets to his feet, saving his progress, and turns to grab his keys before making his way solidly out of his flat, the door shutting firmly behind him.

The flat above him only became occupied a couple of weeks ago. Phil saw the removal van and heard the sound of footsteps above his head for the first time, but beyond that he has no idea who is now living above him. So as he takes the stairs up one floor, nervously counting doors as he wanders down the corridor, he really has no idea what to expect.

He ends up counting the doors three times over, just to make absolutely sure he’s going to knock at the right flat. He can’t imagine anything much more mortifying than complaining to the wrong person. Phil finds it hard enough to complain in the first place.

Gathering his courage, and drawing in a slow breath, Phil raises his fist and knocks three times, politely.

It takes a few moments for there to be a response. Phil counts the seconds nervously, reminding himself that he’s perfectly within his rights to be there, that noisy neighbours are a legitimate problem. Just a problem he’s never specifically had to face before, despite his 27 years.

The door finally flies open, and there’s a man leaning against the doorframe. Oh, a man as tall as Phil. _Taller_ than Phil. Dark eyes, hair swept under a black beanie, a couple of freckles dotted on one cheek.

Phil can’t help but notice that the man is very, very cute.

“Yeah?” He says, almost tiredly. His eyes bore into Phil’s without interest, looking straight through him, glassy and sharp.

Phil swallows and hopes it doesn’t sound like a gulp. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s got the right flat – now the door is open he can hear the music again, a dull thumping in the background, still intangible. It helps, reminds Phil why he’s there in the first place.

He draws himself up and looks the man dead in the eyes. “Hi, yeah, sorry. I live below you, and—”

“You do?” The man’s eyes gain slightly more interest.

“Yeah,” Phil acknowledges before stumbling on quickly. “And I hate to be that guy, really, but – your music. I’m working, you know?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “My music.”

“Yeah.”

“What about my music?”

“It’s, well,” Phil grimaces, “A little loud?”

The man simply looks at him.

Phil looks back, determinedly.

“Loud,” the man finally relents, his tone flat. “You think _this_ is loud?”

“My walls are literally shaking,” Phil says, weakly.

The man’s lips twitch in the slightest hint of a smirk. The look suits him. “Well, that’s not my problem.”

Phil bristles, his brow furrowing at the blatant rudeness coming in waves from this stranger. His lip pulls down. “Oh. Right. Well, in any case – could you at least turn it down a little? My work, you know.”

“It’s late,” the stranger shrugs. “Probably about time to stop working, I’d say.”

Phil pauses in astonishment. Really? Phil is a friendly guy, he doesn’t think he’s had a first conversation go this badly in his life. He decides that it’s time to stop being polite, no matter how cute this stranger may look with the hint of a curl peeking out from beneath that beanie. “Yes, well, some of us don’t have that luxury, so if you could please deign to turn your music down I would really, _really_ appreciate it.”

His sarcasm isn’t exactly cutting, but it’s still enough to make the man back off a little. With the curve of a smirk touching his lips, and the hint of something sharp in his eyes, the man simply jerks his head in what might have been a nod. “Duly noted. See you around.”

And with that, the door slams shut in Phil’s face.

Well. Phil bites back his bristling anger, the odd tingling burning sensation that he doesn’t often feel bubbling up in his chest. It takes a lot to get him riled, honestly, he considers himself fairly laid back, but something about that stranger’s smirk just sets Phil on edge.

He returns to his room with a stab of resentment, only mildly appreciative when the music shuts off half an hour later, too late for him to think through editing anymore that evening.

\---

The next time Phil runs into the man occupying the apartment above him is a breezy Tuesday. Phil’s standing in the lobby of their building, attempting to brush the clump of autumnal leaves that had decided to follow him back inside after his quick run to the shops. He wouldn’t have gone, but he was almost out of milk and the thought of waking up to no coffee in the morning was enough to drive him out of the house, even if he had to walk ten minutes further to get the kind of almond milk that he liked.

He’s leaning against the wall, hopping on one foot, when there is a clatter on the stairs followed by a low screech, and the man who lives above him comes tumbling down the stairs in a rush, just catching himself on the bannister and scarcely avoiding a fall.

Phil raises his eyebrows, biting back a smirk. “You alright over there?”

“Just fine,” comes the sharp response. The man barely glances at him, eyes quickly darting back to the floor as he brushes off his jacket. Black, like the rest of his clothes. No beanie today though, and his hair falls perfectly straight. Strange. Phil could have sworn he’d caught the hint of a curl last time they met.

Speaking of, Phil isn’t sure how he should feel about seeing the man again. He supposes it’s difficult to completely avoid someone living in the same building as him, but still, the man had radiated rudeness last time they met. Phil isn’t exactly jumping for joy at seeing him again.

Still. The man is still brushing his coat down and concertedly ignoring Phil’s gaze, and for lack of a better word he looks _cute_ , obviously trying to brush off a near fall.

Phil bites both his lips, looking away as he says, “Might want to check your balance.”

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” comes the sardonic reply, and when Phil looks over again he sees the man sending him a sharp glare. His eyes are narrowed, dark, but much to Phil’s surprise he finds he quite likes being under the man’s gaze again.

“Just saying,” Phil shrugs, putting on his most innocent expression. “It’s dangerous to fall down, like – how many did you just fall down? Seven steps? – might want to watch yourself.”

“What are you, the stairs police?” The man snaps, stepping further into the lobby. Despite himself, Phil shrinks back a little – he isn’t used to being around people taller than him. Not that this man looks any more built than Phil himself is, too pasty to spend much time outside. “Besides, you’re not much better. Hanging onto the wall for dear life.”

Phil quickly retracts his hand from the wall, and then wobbles until he sets both feet firmly back down on the ground. He’s pretty sure there’s still a leaf attached to his heel, but he ignores it as he faces the stranger again. “At least I have gravity on my side. And anyway, I’m used to injuring myself in weird ways. I’ve got, like, three bruises that I don’t remember appearing.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitches. “Vital information, that.”

“It’ll brighten your life knowing it,” Phil promises.

The man just shakes his head, but there’s a warmer tint to his tone as he says, “We’ll see about that.” Or, at least, Phil wants to pretend there’s a warmer tone behind his words.

He watches the man leave, wondering where he’s headed to on a cold autumnal night when it’s already dark, but then he remembers that it isn’t really any of his business.

\---

The music is playing again.

It’s been a few weeks of blissful quiet, or at least normal levels of noise – the odd laugh from the hall as someone climbed the staircase, but nothing untoward. Nothing so _annoying_. But here it is again, the constant thump of a bass so loud that the coffee in the mug Phil has precariously balanced on the arm of his sofa is shaking.

He grits his teeth, debating going up again. Up to the level above him, but there is something about the music today. Something a little bit off. It’s the same heavy mass of noise as before, undiscernible in genre, just a loud quick tempo, but something else is hidden behind it. Phil sits for probably too long, trying to figure out what it is, his unedited work sitting open on his laptop.

Behind the thumping music, there is something softer. Something he barely catches in the occasional gaps between songs. A hum, a note, something pure, something that doesn’t belong.

It bothers him so much that he sits and listens until the music stops again, and the silence that floods his flat is no longer peaceful.

He returns to his editing with a heavy heart, only getting through a few scenes before he calls it a night. It’s late anyway, his boss can wait until the morning. Too late to be working, after all. About time to stop.

\---

When Phil collects his post from the mailbox down in the lobby, there is something not addressed to him that’s somehow found its way into his pile. He recognises the number straight away. Flat 302. He lives in 202. 302 is directly above his flat.

He briefly considers the name. _Daniel Howell_. The man from the flat above him, with the dark eyes and the soft-looking hair, looks like a Daniel, he decides. The name suits his sharp eyes and witty tongue.

Phil contemplates the letter for several moments, standing in the lobby, his own post shoved forgotten under his arm. It looks inconspicuous, a simple plain white envelope, typed address, not handwritten. Nothing personal about it at all. Phil gleans nothing from it other than the man’s name.

He could just put it back in the correct mailbox. He probably should do exactly that. But something about the memory of the man’s smirk makes Phil turn, envelope in hand, and make for the staircase (the lift is broken, again. Just because Phil can afford to live in London doesn’t mean he can afford to live somewhere _nice_ ).

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that. Phil isn’t exactly sure what he expects to get from this experience, but he’s interested enough to follow it through, and what’s the worst that can happen, really? He gets his head bitten off again? Phil’s dealt with worse.

He drops his own post in his bag, but doesn’t stop at his floor. Instead goes straight up to the third and walks along the corridor, counting doors again until he comes to the right one.

This time, it is eerily quiet.

Still, Phil knocks, and waits patiently a few moments. Then knocks again.

Eventually, there is the soft sound of rustling and muffled footsteps, and then the door is being pulled open and the man – Daniel, presumably – is standing there all wrapped up in a hoody (still black) and what looks like jogging bottoms, black beanie pulled down over his hair. His nose is a little red, and he doesn’t hide the surprise that flits across his face at seeing Phil on the other side of the door. “Oh. Uh – hi?”

“Hi,” Phil answers, and bites his lip at the awkwardness radiating from the man before him. He holds up the letter, clutching at his reason for being here. “Sorry, I just – this was in my mailbox.”

The man frowns a little, reaching out. Phil hands over the letter reluctantly.

“Oh.” The man turns it over, studying it with an adorable little crease in his forehead. “Thanks, I guess? Don’t know how it ended up with yours, doesn’t look like much tbh.”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, tilting his head. _Who says tbh out loud?_ The man’s voice sounds sniffly, and his nose is still red. “Sorry, just – are you sick?”

The man glances up at him briefly, eyes puffy. There is the shadow of a dark circle underneath them, and Phil’s heart pulls. “Oh, you _are_ sick. You poor thing. Have you got medicine?”

The man arches a brow, pulling back just a bit, and Phil remembers to rein in his instinct to poke his nose into anyone and everyone’s business just because he happens to be in slight proximity. He still doesn’t know this man, after all, and honestly hasn’t had the best of encounters with him so far. He should back off. Probably.

Instead, Phil says, “Sorry, I don’t mean to presume. It’s just. My mum always said you have to treat autumn colds quickly or they’ll linger, and I know you only moved in a few weeks ago, figured you might not have had time to stock up yet –”

“It’s fine,” the man interrupts him, and his voice is definitely thicker than normal. He waves an airy hand. “You’re just more perceptive than I thought you’d be.”

Phil’s brow crinkles. “Rude.”

“Come on, last time I saw you you had foliage leaking from your feet,” the man responds, and is that a teasing lilt to his tone? Phil thinks it might be. He tries to tie down the small flare of hope it incites in his chest.

“At least I didn’t almost land flat on my face in the lobby,” he points out.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the man answers wryly, and pauses to sneeze.

Phil’s heart tugs insistently at him, and he gives easily, saying, “Ok, I’m going to, like, get you medicine? Ok? Is there anything you like in particular?”

Phil is given a tense, long look in response. The man’s – Daniel’s, Phil wants to start calling him Daniel – forehead is creased, his eyes unblinking as they look calmly into Phil’s. It might be intimidating, if it weren’t for the redness of his nose and the slight flushed patch on his left cheek.

“Why?” Daniel asks finally.

Phil lifts a brow. “Why what?”

“Why are you standing on my doorstep offering to get me medicine?” Daniel flaps a half-hearted hand at him. “We’ve had, like, two conversations max, and for one of those you were shouting at me.”

“I wasn’t _shouting_ ,” Phil disagrees quickly.

“You were.”

“No, I was just – loudly voicing my opinion. Asking _you_ to be quiet, actually.”

The corner of Daniel’s mouth twitches up. “And in thanks for my annoying bad neighbourly habits, you’re offering to get me medicine?”

Phil stands still for a moment, but then his expression tightens. He nods once, firmly. “Yes. Because even rude bystanders deserve to avoid weeks-long illness. I’m gonna go to Boots, be back in like, ten minutes.”

“I can’t swallow tablets.”

Phil blinks, already half-turned away. “Excuse me?”

“Tablets,” Daniel adds, gaze fixed firmly on the floor when Phil turns back to look at him. “Can’t swallow them. Choke every time, it’s a pain in the arse.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, in which Phil feels something settle between them, the tension not dissipating exactly, just… shifting.

“Right,” Phil says finally. “So no tablets then. Got it. Anything else?”

Daniel bites his lip, glances away. “I’m nearly out of milk.”

“What am I, your personal shopper now?”

“You asked!” Daniel’s voice goes adorably high-pitched, a croaky squeak that he instantly looks embarrassed about. “It’s not like you have to do any of this shit for me, you just – you offered, so—”

“So milk,” Phil cuts in, “Right. Now I’m going to leave before you pile any more of your shopping list onto me.”

“You _offered_ ,” Daniel replies indignantly, and stays in the doorway watching as Phil heads back towards the stairs.

Phil ends up buying him two cartons of milk, along with those sachets you can put into drinks to help with colds, both the day and night kinds, and a couple of chocolate bars as well because he knows what makes him feel better when he’s sick. And he figures Daniel must be really quite sick, because there had hardly been a sarcastic word out of him earlier. Which is unusual, going on what little Phil has gathered about him.

He traipses all the way up three flights of stairs with the heavy shopping bag and his own rucksack still slung on his back, panting more heavily than he’d like to admit when he finally reaches Daniel’s door again. He takes a moment to catch his breath, standing alone in the dim corridor that’s identical to the one outside his own flat.

When he knocks, there’s something like a crash from the other side of the door before it opens and Daniel’s stood there again, cheeks flushed, beanie slipping a little to the side. A curl makes itself known, curling just above Daniel’s ear. It’s adorable, he looks adorable, all bundled up and sniffling, nose still red.

Phil holds up the bag, leaning against the doorframe. “Right. No tablets, just those sachet things, my mum swears by them, only make sure you drink enough water too. And got your damn milk, lugged it all the way up the stairs for you too.”

“You didn’t have to,” Daniel snivels, taking the bag from Phil and stepping back. He leaves the door open as he heads further inside, but Phil still teeters in the doorway, peeking just barely inside. It smells like must and cleaning liquid, lemon scented. He can spot a scented candle burning away in a corner.

“You coming in or what? I’ve got the coffee machine on.” Daniel’s voice comes from the direction of the kitchen, so Phil steps hesitantly inside, shuts the door behind him, follows Daniel over to the counter.

“Ok, but you can’t have coffee,” Phil reprimands, stepping over and watching Daniel fetch two mugs down from a cupboard (one is _minions_ , which has Phil seriously reconsidering having anything to do with this man at all, but the other one has an adorable photo of a dog that looks more personal, so he’ll hold on for now). “It’s dehydrating.”

“Yes, _mum_ ,” Daniel snorts. He’s poking around in the bag Phil brought him, depositing the milk in the fridge, pausing over the chocolate. He sends Phil a look.

“What?” Phil says defensively. “It always helps me feel better.”

Daniel just shakes his head, but there’s a small smile touching his lips as he slips the chocolate into a cupboard. He takes out the medicine packets next, studying them with apparent detail. Then he says, “I’m Dan, by the way.”

“Oh.” Phil reconsiders what he’d been calling him in his head. “Hi. Hi, Dan.”

Dan glances up at him, lips twitching.

“I’m Phil,” Phil says belatedly. “Live directly beneath you. Which is why I know where you live. Sorry. Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Dan agrees, flicking the kettle on. “If by _weird_ you mean _incredibly rude_ , coming up here telling me to turn my music down.”

A frown creases Phil’s brow. “Hey, no, it was _so loud_. I couldn’t think straight.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.”

“No one else lives directly below you,” Phil points out. “I appreciate having my walls intact, thank you very much.”

Dan shakes his head, his beanie slipping a little further to the side, more curls tumbling out. “You’re exaggerating a fuck ton, mate.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Phil mutters. “Don’t know how you stand it, anyway, being right in the middle of a racket like that.”

“I’ll have you know it’s _art_ ,” Dan disagrees, picking up the kettle. “Sugar?”

“Two,” Phil confirms, “And no coffee for you.”

“It’s _decaf_ —”

“Still dehydrating, take the medicine I so dutifully went out and bought you.” Phil watches with a stern gaze as Dan sighs dramatically and picks up the medicine packet. “And I fail to see how whatever noise you thud through my flat is in any way _art_.”

“You haven’t lived,” Dan snaps back, pouring out the water. He makes a face at his lemon-scented medicine drink, peering over it. “Are you sure this is worth it?”

“Trust me, that stuff works,” Phil reassures. He won’t admit it, but he enjoys the way Dan’s eyes crinkle up when he peers with suspicion at his drink, the corners creasing, his lips pulling into just a hint of a pout. It’s undeniably cute, and Phil would be lying if he didn’t at least acknowledge the slight pull of attraction to Dan tugging insistently at his insides.

“You’d better be right, Phil.” Dan makes a face, but he lifts the mug and takes a tentative, scalding sip. He looks distinctly displeased when he lowers the mug again.

Phil can’t help it – he emits a low laugh. “Sorry. Promise it’ll be worth it when your cold goes away, though.”

“Fucking better,” Dan mumbles, wiping his mouth. He passes the second mug, now full of coffee, over to Phil, looks at it with a distinct yearning.

Phil laughs again, accepting the mug. He’ll even forgive the minions, what with how undeniably cute Dan is being, and Phil doesn’t know if it’s the fact that he’s sick or if he just happened to catch Dan at bad times the past couple of times they’d met. Either way, he likes this Dan. Slightly pouty, slightly messy, but a bit of a delight, if Phil’s insides are to be believed.

He takes a sip of his coffee, takes a moment to glance around – Dan’s flat is laid out in almost the exact same way as Phil’s, open plan kitchen and lounge, small hallway leading to darkness but where presumably the bedroom and bathroom are. It’s weird, being in a place so similar to his own and yet _not_ – none of the furniture is familiar, and yet he still feels at home.

“So do you just make a habit of looking after any lost strays you happen across?” Dan asks out of the blue, and when Phil turns back he finds Dan looking straight at him. “Or am I a special case?”

“I’m a fan of strays,” Phil answers ambiguously. “Though you’re particularly waif-y at the moment. All bambi eyes and sad sniffles. Maybe it’s that.”

“Oi,” Dan grumbles half-heartedly. “I’d kick you out if I had any fucks to give right now.”

Phil snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But, like,” he looks up, meets Dan’s gaze with sincerity for a moment, “I’ll get out of your hair if you want. I know it sucks having company when you feel crappy, and I don’t think I’m exactly your favourite person at the best of times.”

“Can say that again, fucking noise police,” Dan grumbles, but Phil thinks it’s good-natured. Dan is smiling at him, at least, a small smile that only just touches his eyes, but a smile all the same. “But seriously, it’s fine. Invited you in, didn’t I? Least I can do is give you coffee.”

“Well. Thanks.” Phil shifts a bit under Dan’s intense gaze, glances down, unsure how to take the invitation. He hadn’t expected this, honestly. But he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the odd tension he feels every time he meets Dan’s gaze, senses eyes on him when he isn’t looking, feels himself drawn to stealing glances at Dan whenever given the opportunity. It’s been a while since he’s felt drawn to someone.

He takes a sip. Dan’s coffee is more expensive than Phil’s, some fancy blend that Phil doesn’t normally bother with, actually doesn’t like as much as the cheap stuff. But he still has manners, so he smiles and glances back over at Dan, who is still making a face at his mug.

“Stop that,” Phil reprimands, “And drink up. Do you not want to get any sleep tonight?”

“Wouldn’t make much of a difference,” Dan snorts, but obediently sips anyway under Phil’s stern gaze. “Fuck. You’re worse than my actual mother.”

“Just making sure my money doesn’t go to waste,” Phil answers, but it’s softer than he intends it to be.

Dan meets his gaze again, and although he isn’t smiling exactly, there’s a sort of warmth dancing away in his eyes, hidden somewhere deep. Phil likes it. More accurately, he likes the way it feels when Dan’s eyes are on him.

Phil stays until his coffee is completely gone and Dan has had at least half of his medicine, and he learns that Dan is a writer, freelance, stays at home most of the time, that he likes Muse (“Well why don’t you play _that_ instead of whatever crap you shake my walls with?” “It’s _art_ , Phil, _art_ , and Muse is mostly for special occasions.”) and that he’s incredulous over Phil’s admittance to preferring cheap coffee over expensive blends.

He also learns that Dan smells like coconut body wash and has rough, calloused fingers when he leans close to take the mug back off Phil.

Phil returns to his room with conflicted feelings. He’s still annoyed about the music thing, but Dan turned out to be much nicer than Phil was expecting, funny and sharp but also soft. But then again, that could have just been the sickness.

Phil pushes all thoughts of him from his mind, or at least, he tries to, and gets back to his editing.

\---

He passes Dan on the stairway three days later, on his way out to a meeting. Dan is headed back upstairs, wrapped up in a long black coat (does he own anything in another colour?), still sniffling. His hair is straight again, falling across his forehead in a style very similar to Phil’s own, actually, now that Phil thinks about it.

Dan pauses when he sees him, stopping short with one foot in the air, eyes wide.

Phil looks back, feels the same rabbit-in-the-headlights caught feeling tighten in his chest. Last time they spoke, things ended well, but not with any degree of finality. Phil really isn’t sure where they stand, exactly, not quite sure what they are. Friends? Friendly acquaintances?

No, none of that quite adequately describes the odd tension he could feel every time he catches Dan’s gaze on his.

“Hey,” Dan says finally, breaking the silence.

“Hey,” Phil answers, and then, because he can’t help himself, “Might want to put your foot down. Don’t want a repeat of you falling down the stairs.”

Dan huffs out a laugh, planting his feet on the step. “If I did, I’d fully expect you to scoop me off the floor.”

“Hey, I don’t wanna get my hands bloody,” Phil disagrees with a soft laugh.

“Gonna leave me to just bleed out then? Rude.”

“I mean, I’d feel bad for the porter. I might clean up a bit.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Dan laughs, reaching out to prod Phil’s arm. It tingles where Dan touched it, the most cliché thing ever. Phil refuses to be part of a scene out of a romcom.

“Anyway,” Dan says, stepping back quickly and retracting his hand, “I should, uh. Stop delaying you, probably.”

“Probably,” Phil agrees. He hates being late, and he does have a meeting, but he still pauses on the stairs, glancing back up at Dan. “But, uh. I don’t. I don’t mind the delay?”

Dan pauses again, fumbles against the bannister, and for a fleeting moment Phil is genuinely worried that he actually will fall.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steadies himself and looks Phil right in the eyes, and there’s the hint of a smirk on his face, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Well. I’ll delay you some more in the future, then.”

“Please do,” Phil says all in a rush, quickly, mortified.

Dan’s lifts his brows. His smirk grows.

“Shut up,” Phil mutters, and then turns to head on down the stairs. “I actually have a meeting. Shut _up_.”

“Sure thing, Phil,” he hears Dan call from behind him, but he doesn’t turn.

He can feel Dan’s laughing gaze on his back all the way out of the door.

\---

One night, a couple of days later, Phil comes home to the rumble of music thudding through the walls of his flat again. He sighs, exasperated, and collapses on his sofa, wondering distantly if this is some twisted kind of summons. Dan could just come and knock on his door like any normal person, he doesn’t have to incite Phil into making a complaint.

But Phil is tired, he’s had a long day of meetings and actually had to go into the office for once rather than just working from home, so he splays out on his sofa and just listens for once, letting the loud thud of the bass echo in his skull.

He still doesn’t understand whatever music Dan is playing, but there’s something behind it again – something purer, something distant. Quiet. Slippery, like Phil can never quite catch it, even though he listens hard.

Eventually, the music stops, and Phil stays just contemplatively staring at his ceiling, thinking of Dan up there, in the flat that is like his and yet not, pacing about where Phil can hear footsteps. So close, and yet somehow still unreachable.

The silence is deafening.

\---

One night, a week or so later, Phil has pizza in the oven and American Horror Story on the TV when there’s a knock at the door.

He is surprised, briefly, he hardly ever gets visitors, and the surprise grows when he opens it to find Dan standing on the other side.

“This is totally cliché,” Dan says, fiddling with his fingers in his pockets, “But, uh. I’m locked out, and you’re literally the only person I know in this building, so…”

Phil arches a brow, folding his arms. He leans against the doorframe, looking Dan up and down, and Dan shifts under his gaze. His hair is under a beanie again, long black jumper sleeves covering his hands, jeans so skinny they look painful.

The silence holds for a moment until Phil says, “You know, if you wanted to come see me, you could have come up with a better excuse.”

“I _swear_ ,” Dan mutters, fixing Phil with a staunch gaze, “I know what it sounds like, but – literally, I just walked out of the door thinking my keys were in my wallet but then I remembered I put them on the table yesterday for fuck knows what reason –”

“Sure,” Phil drawls, stretching out the syllable.

Dan looks at him plaintively. “I _promise_. I’d come up with a better excuse if I was lying. Not that I would, uh. Lie. To come and see you.”

“You wouldn’t?” Phil puts his hand on his chest as he steps out of the way, letting Dan into his flat. “I’m hurt, Daniel.”

“Well, I probably would, actually,” Dan mumbles, too fast to catch properly. Phil blinks for a moment before assuming he heard wrong. He must have. Even if his thrumming heartbeat disagrees. “Anyway,” Dan continues, stepping into Phil’s lounge, “I really don’t know anyone else, and I don’t want to admit to a random stranger that I’m literally dumb enough to lock my keys inside my own flat, so.”

“So you decided an almost-stranger is better than a random one?” Phil answers with a raised brow.

Dan just looks back at him so plaintively that Phil feels his heart tug. Ridiculous. But he gives, with a small shake of his head, waving Dan over to the kitchen where he flicks the kettle on. “Alright, fine, you can stay here while you wait for your landlord.”

“Right, yeah,” Dan mumbles, “Landlord. Yeah.”

Phil glances at him over the counter. “Or whoever has your spare key.”

“Didn’t get around to giving it to anyone,” Dan shrugs, coming round the counter to join Phil. He leans his hip against the side of the oven, watching Phil get out two mugs. The proximity makes Phil’s head cloud, slows his thinking a little. “Don’t even know where it is. Probably still in the drawer, in my flat, which I’m locked out of. Not the most helpful, you know?”

“No,” Phil chuckles in soft agreement. “Landlord it is, then.”

Dan doesn’t reply straight away, instead shuffling on his feet. When Phil looks up, his head is cast down, eyes fixed on a spot on Phil’s (slightly grubby) tiles. “Yeah. Uh. My landlord will… have a spare set, then?”

Phil blinks at him. Then tilts his head. “I mean, yeah? Usually. Not that I’m claiming to know your arrangement, or anything, just—”

“No, yeah, of course,” Dan interrupts hastily. “Makes sense. I just, uh. Hasn’t really happened to me before, you know.”

Phil looks at him contemplatively mid-spooning out coffee. Dan looks young, and his height could be deceiving Phil into thinking he’s older than he really is. His face is smooth, unlined aside from the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs. He decides to question. “Not lived alone for long, then?”

Dan makes a face. “No, I have. Like. I lived alone at uni, I just – it’s different.”

“Recent graduate?” Phil guesses, studying Dan’s expression. He’s staring at the floor still, eyes creased, and there’s a hint of a pout on his lips.

“Not exactly,” Dan disagrees, glancing up briefly to meet Phil’s gaze. Phil tries to ignore the sharp little squeeze in his chest that accompanies it. “I’m 23. Graduated a couple of years ago, moved back home for a bit. Then I came here.”

“Ah.” That makes a lot of sense. Phil is strangely grateful for the increasing picture of Dan growing before him, starting to make sense of the bits and pieces he knows. He wonders what makes him play such loud music, why he paces sometimes late at night when Phil is working and can hear the footsteps creaking above him.

“What about you?” Dan asks, and Phil turns to find him fixing Phil with a curious gaze.

Phil arches a brow. “What about me what? Also, do you take sugar with your coffee?”

“Nah,” Dan answers, “Just milk. And I mean, how old are you, did you graduate, all that stuff.”

“You wanna get to know me,” Phil says, biting back a smile as he adds milk to their coffees and sugar for him.

“Fuck off,” Dan tells him, but takes the mug Phil hands him with a soft smile.

Phil just grins back. “I’m 27. Got a masters, now I work from home. Spend most of my time here.”

“Freelance?”

“Yeah, but not writing. Editing. Short films, music videos, stuff like that.”

“Really?” Dan’s eyes light up a little in interest. Phil is a bit overwhelmed at having him here, his presence in Phil’s kitchen. “Sounds fun.”

“It is, when I’m not having music blasted in my ears when I’m trying to work,” Phil says a little pointedly.

Dan snorts. “Smooth. And I only play at like, 2am now, you shouldn’t be working then.”

“Needs must, sometimes,” Phil complains. “I’m a night owl. You keep ruining it.”

“Sorry,” Dan smirks, not sounding very sorry at all.

Phil rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. It’s difficult for him not to smile around Dan. He finds his smirk infectious, the mirth often hiding in his eyes enticing. He tries not to dwell too much on what that might mean, and ignores the thudding tug of his heart every time Dan is in close proximity to him.

Dan stays long enough to call his landlord and watch a couple of episodes of American Horror Story with Phil (turns out he’s been following it too, but is more caught up than Phil. He says he doesn’t mind watching the episodes again though). At some point Phil remembers his dinner and rushes to rescue it from the oven, and he shares the slightly burnt slices with Dan until his landlord shows up.

Dan turns out to be a good watching companion. He doesn’t talk through the good bits, and uses the slower moments to whisper opinions to Phil, often sharp-witted and well thought out. Phil comments as much, and Dan admits that his freelance writing includes reviewing films, sometimes.

Phil makes a mental note to look him up later.

All in all, it’s a nice evening, and when Phil waves Dan off to greet his landlord, it’s with a warm feeling settling comfortably in his stomach.

\---

The next time music echoes loudly through Phil’s flat, he actually has company. Jimmy’s around, sitting with him to reminisce about uni days over drinks and a board game, one of the few that’s actually good for 2 players. They’ve got cards scattered all around his table and Phil’s actually inching towards winning when the bass starts up, loud enough to shake their glasses on the table.

“Woah,” Jimmy comments, “Someone’s having a party.”

“I highly doubt he is, actually,” Phil snorts. Dan is solitary, he knows him well enough to know that, and in fact it’s difficult to imagine Dan in a room full of other people. In Phil’s mind, Dan is always solitary, not existing outside the confines of their building. He wonders what Dan would look like in a crowd.

Jimmy eyes him in confusion. “You know what’s going on?”

“It’s just Dan,” Phil says with a shrug.

“Dan?”

“Guy who lives above me. He does this, sometimes.”

Jimmy huffs, scanning his hand before placing a card deliberately down on the table. “Must drive you mad.”

“You get used to it,” Phil shrugs, and wonders at how true that is. He’s grown accustomed to the odd nights of shaking walls and blaring bass, still none the wiser as to what Dan actually sees in this kind of music. But there is still that sweeter tone behind it that Phil hears sometimes, tugging at his ears, inviting him in further. It didn’t fit with the pounding bass, wasn’t even in time with it sometimes, at least not to Phil’s untrained ears. It nagged at him.

Jimmy is still fixing Phil with an unrelenting gaze. “So what, you just put up with it?”

“No,” Phil says, defensively. “I went up to complain, actually, the first time.”

“And?”

“He was a bit rude,” Phil admits, “But then he got better.”

Jimmy arches a brow. “Still plays the music, though. Doesn’t sound so great to me.”

“Well, no.” Phil furrows his brow. Thinks for a moment, wonders, objectively, why it bothers him to hear Dan spoken ill of when really he hasn’t done very much good at all.

But Phil remembers what Dan looked like when he was sniffly and sick, and when he was standing in Phil’s kitchen looking a little lost, and his heart tugs again. He can feel his lips curving up into a small smile, and for once he doesn’t stop it.

“Woah,” Jimmy laughs, and Phil jolts out of himself to see Jimmy giving him a knowing look.

“What?” Phil asks, a little too late.

“I know that look,” Jimmy hums, his eyes bright as he takes Phil in. “This _Dan_. He hot?”

Phil chokes and fumbles with his hand of cards, suddenly becoming very interested in studying the small print.

He can feel Jimmy’s gaze burning into him.

Finally, after a long moment, Phil mumbles, “Maybe.”

Jimmy laughs, shaking his head so his hair falls flat over his eyes. He sweeps it back with an easy hand. “Well. Must be quite a sight, if you’re putting up with _this_.” He gestures to the table where their drinks are still wobbling with the thrum of the bass.

“Yeah,” Phil mumbles, tips of his ears burning as he puts his card down, barely even focusing. “Whatever. Can we just play, please?”

“Haven’t seen you like this since second year at uni,” Jimmy chuckles, but he obediently goes on with the game. They both pretend not to see the way the back of Phil’s neck has turned a glowing red.

\---

It’s raining, the kind of unpleasant rain that hangs like mist in the air and clings to every patch of exposed skin. Phil is shivering, ducked low under his hood, relieved for once that he heeds his mum’s words closely and has invested in a good long raincoat. He’s almost back at his building after a meeting with his boss, his laptop safely tucked away in his rucksack.

He turns the corner and walks head-first into someone, colliding with a crash.

Phil gives a startled exclamation, stumbling back instantly. He hears a muttered _shit_ from in front of him and looks up to see none other than Dan, dripping in a hoody with a mug of coffee held in front of him.

“Crap, sorry!” Phil exclaims, eyes wide. “Did I manage to spill that on you?”

Dan looks over and sees him, his expression relaxing with recognition. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Phil huffs. “ _Oh, it’s you_ , thanks.”

“Sorry.” Dan bites his lip, hiding a smile if the dimple that appears in his cheek is anything to go by. Phil feels his heart tug again, steps in a little closer.

“You didn’t spill my coffee,” Dan continues, holding out his mug. “Saved by the green stick.”

Phil frowns, confused, but takes a closer look and sees that Dan’s mug is stoppered shut by one of the sticks they have at Starbucks, keeping his drink from spilling. He smiles, relaxing. “Oh, good. Was worried I’d burned you by accident then.”

“Nope, safe for today,” Dan answers, his tone warm. He holds up the cup towards Phil. “Would totally have made you buy me a new one if you had spilt it, though, I paid good money for this.”

Phil snorts. “There are easier ways to ask me to buy you a coffee.”

It comes out flirtier than he expected, and Phil has a heart-stopping moment of terror that he’s accidentally pushed too far.

But then Dan’s smile becomes a smirk, and he gives Phil a quick, blatant once-over, eyes flickering up and down his body. “I dunno. Not a hundred percent sure you’re my type.”

Phil huffs again. He feels himself draw up under Dan’s gaze, making himself taller, almost matching Dan even if Dan may have an inch or two on him. He arches a brow. “Rude. And here I was thinking I stood a chance.”

“Maybe.” Dan’s eyes are sparkling as he meets Phil’s. “If you get lucky.”

“The _arrogance_.” Phil shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There is the start of some impossible hope building in his chest, but as much as it hurts he squashes it down straight away. He doesn’t need to get tangled up in anything, especially not when Dan is doing nothing more than some innocent flirting.

Probably. But the dangerous smirk still playing about Dan’s lips has Phil doubting himself all over again.

“Anyway,” Dan delicately sidesteps Phil, coffee still in hand. “I actually was on my way to something – but rain check on that coffee?”

Phil blinks at him, silent for a beat too long. “Oh – yeah – yeah! Sure, I mean – not like I can exactly avoid you, you know where I live.”

“Ditto.” The smirk on Dan’s face clears into a smile, just for a second, but long enough for Phil to notice the crinkles around his eyes, the way his eyes soften. Phil’s chest tugs, hard.

He takes a breath.

“See you around.” Dan lifts his coffee in acknowledgment, then turns and continues on his way down the pavement, head bobbing above the crowds.

Phil watches him for probably too long, until he’s far down the pavement and about to turn a corner, before he heads back inside.

\---

Phil is decidedly _not_ having a good day.

He woke from a bad sleep in a rough mood, the lights too chafing on his eyes, his movements sluggish and reluctant as he got ready. He had another meeting at the office today; they were working on a big project for a client they hoped would become a repeat customer, and Phil was leading the editing team. An honour, but also a lot of hard work.

He heads to work through a downpour of rain, and on the way a strap of his rucksack breaks. A rare curse escapes his lips, and he’s forced to walk the rest of the way hugging his bag to his chest in hopes of protecting his laptop and folders.

He suffers through the meeting and leaves with a hell of a lot more responsibility on his back, a headache building at his temples, something like nerves or stress coiling tightly in his stomach.

His lack of sleep makes itself known when he gets back to his flat and curls up on his sofa to attempt some actual editing. The scenes all blur together, the images refusing to join up neatly. Phil chugs through two coffees in record speed and clicks and clicks away, barely making any progress but at least getting _somewhere_.

And then it starts again.

Throbbing, deep bass music rocking the walls of his flat, throbbing through the air, making the last dregs of his coffee jump in his mug. The noise joins the pounding in Phil’s head. He can’t think.

With a loud groan, Phil gives up on his editing and slams the lid of his laptop down, leaning his head back against his sofa cushions. The music doesn’t relent. He presses his palms to his face, fingers digging in, seeking some relief, but the bass continues to pound and his irritation and exhaustion continues to grow.

His muscles ache as he stands, and he only pauses to grab his keys before determinedly pacing to the door.

The walk up to Dan’s flat is a blur of avoiding people, keeping his head down and hands tucked into his pockets. When he gets to Dan’s door, he can hear the music still going, but there’s that tantalising quieter noise behind it – something Phil can’t quite place his finger on. Normally, he’d make an effort to search it out, but right now all he wants is for it to _stop_.

He knocks on the door loud enough to be heard over the racket, fists pounding, and then waits the few seconds it takes for the door to open.

When Dan appears on the other side, Phil sags, shoulders bowing, and simply begs, “ _Please_.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then: “Shit, Phil, are you alright?”

Phil flicks a glance up and sees Dan peering at him, a worried crease to his forehead. He’s dressed in a black-and-white stripy shirt, the first splash of colour Phil’s seen him wear (if white can really count as a _colour_ ). It suits him.

“Phil?” Dan steps in closer, worry clearly colouring his tone. He reaches out and grasps Phil’s elbow, and Phil’s heart does something funny.

Phil swallows, gets himself together, and tries to level a frown Dan’s way. It comes out weaker than he means when he says, “Dan, the _music_ , _please_.”

“I thought you didn’t mind it.” Dan’s tone is level, but there’s a crack behind his words. He tugs on Phil’s elbow. “Come inside.”

Phil follows, reluctantly, his head still throbbing, but he won’t refuse another peek into Dan’s life. The music is louder from inside the flat, pacing through the walls, the sound thick enough that Phil felt like he had to physically move through it to enter the room. The lighter, softer sound Phil sometimes hears isn’t there at all anymore. He feels a pang of disappointment.

“Hang on.” Dan disappears for a moment somewhere to the left, and then the music stops and Phil is surrounded in beautiful, forgiving, gentle silence.

He takes a moment to breathe.

“Phil?” There’s a touch at his elbow, and Dan’s back in his vision again, eyes narrowed. He isn’t wearing his beanie today, curls falling freely down his forehead.

Phil looks back at him, straightening a little as he realises he can think straight again. He glances around, realises he’s been brought further into Dan’s flat than he realised, into a new, different room, some kind of study. There’s a desk and a computer, and two enormous speakers proudly on display. And in the corner sits a white piano, stool pulled out, keys on display, a tablet displaying chords balanced precariously on the music stand.

Phil blinks at it. A piano?

“Phil?” Dan tugs on his elbow, and Phil returns his attention to him. Dan looks worried still, tone concerned as he continues, “I’m sorry, I really didn’t think it bothered you anymore. You haven’t said anything the last few times.”

“Yeah,” Phil says, and his voice croaks. He coughs into his fist. “Yeah, sorry. I just. I don’t normally mind it, but…”

Dan bites his lip, surveys Phil closely. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“No.” The word slips out before Phil has a chance to catch himself. He closes his eyes for a moment, just breathes again.

There is a touch at his elbow, gentle, almost nervous. He opens his eyes again and Dan is levelling a sincere look at him, something like concern furrowing his brow.

“I just,” Phil tries to explain himself, “Hard day at work? And, like, my head feels a bit like a fairy spent most of the night stuffing cotton wool through my ears.”

Despite himself, Dan snorts, the sound surprising in the still air between them. “Rude fairy, that.”

“Tell me about it.” Phil shakes his head, moves unconsciously closer. The touch at his elbow has become firmer, Dan’s thumb rubbing gentle circles into his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Dan says, then points imperiously at the door. “Go sit on the couch.”

Phil blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Go sit on the couch.” Dan shuffles his feet, avoiding Phil’s eyes.

Phil arches a brow, his head still thrumming even with the blessed silence now filling the flat. But it still takes him a while to process. “What?”

“The couch, Phil.” Dan sighs loudly. “Go sit. Don’t fight me on this, you took care of me when I was sick, so. Returning the favour?”

Oh. Ok, that makes a little more sense. Something funny is burning at Phil’s insides, something he doesn’t feel very often, a strange mix bubbling away in his stomach. He tries to ignore it as he takes one last glance around the room, eyes lingering on the white piano for a moment, before he turns and moves in the direction of the lounge. It helps that this flat is laid out just like his, except where his study is Dan has set up the speakers.

Dan’s couches are white leather. Not the most comfortable, not like Phil’s ratty old things, but they fit the general look of the place, everything minimalist black and white with the odd streak of grey. It’s stylish, though Phil thinks there definitely isn’t enough colour.

“Stay there,” Dan says from behind him, waving haphazardly at the sofa cushions. “I think I’ve still got those gross drink sachet things you bought me before.”

Phil settles happily enough, listening to Dan clattering in the round somehow therapeutic. The knot of stress that had been tightening in his stomach the entire day so far is somehow unwinding, loosening his limbs. He actually finds himself relaxing.

Dan returns soon enough, placing the medicinal drink down in front of Phil before settling on the cushions beside him, hugging his own mug to his chest. The smell of coffee is heavy in the air.

Phil makes a face, curling up in the corner. “It’s too late to be having caffeine.”

“Good job you’re not my mother, then,” Dan says back playfully, and takes a long, purposeful sip.

Phil just rolls his eyes.

The medicinal drink tastes kind of awful, but Phil appreciates the gesture from Dan and thinks he may actually be coming down with something, so he makes sure to drink it all with the appropriate pathetic snuffling to garner sympathy.

It works, but only to some degree. Dan just rolls his eyes at him and calls him a wimp, all while fetching him a blanket and offering to put something calming on the tv. Phil appreciates all of it, but even more he likes the fond crinkles at the corners of Dan’s eyes when he smiles.

The knot in Phil’s stomach suddenly tightens again, but not from stress this time.

Dan chatters away while Phil drinks, telling him all about the latest pieces he’s written, one arsehole of an editor who keeps rejecting his ideas over passive-aggressive emails, the most recent being that morning. That is the culprit for Dan blasting the music, Phil finds out.

“I dunno, it just helps,” Dan shrugs, a slightly self-defensive edge to his tone. “Stop me thinking too much, helps me relax. I dunno.”

“Music that loud helps you _relax_?”

“Shut up,” Dan tells him determinedly. “’Sides, it’s not just the music.”

Phil arches a brow at him. “No?”

“No. I, uh.” Dan stops for a moment, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I, uh, I play, actually.”

Phil sends him a confused look.

“The music hides it,” Dan adds, like it’s a confession. “So I can play without, like, worrying that someone will hear.”

“Play what?” Phil asks, his thoughts still slow and sluggish despite the drink.

Dan gestures vaguely towards the other room. “Piano. Uh, not much. But it helps, too, with the stopping me thinking too much.”

Phil’s eyes widen. He thinks back to the music, remembers the slightly sweeter, slightly softer tone that sometimes bleeds through, too quiet to catch. He makes a mental note to listen out for it next time.

“Beats just sitting around writing in silence, anyway,” Dan adds in a rush. “Freelance is great, but it’s a little lonely.”

“Tell me about it,” Phil agrees glumly. “The number of times I’ve had a conversation with my pillow when I’m trying to fix a particularly disagreeable scene.”

“My sofa cushions have heard many drafts of reviews,” Dan agrees.

“And having to constantly make your own hot drinks, no one else to do the rounds.”

“Yeah. Like, I genuinely hate office environments, but at least there you don’t have to pay for your own heating.”

“Or forget to stop working and take a lunch break.”

“Yeah.” Dan smiles briefly to himself. “That’s one I forget a lot, too.”

“We should take them together, then,” Phil says unthinkingly.

Dan looks at him, expression instantly becoming unreadable.

Phil swallows. Suddenly, his heart feels like it swells in his chest. “I mean, like. We’re both freelance. We should work together – like, in the same room. Make our own little office.”

For a tense moment, silence sits heavily between them. Phil’s heart is in his mouth.

But then Dan’s face breaks into a soft smile, and he lifts his fingers to flick his fringe out of his eyes. “Yeah, ok.”

“Ok?”

“At least this way we can poke each other to take proper lunch breaks,” Dan shrugs. “I’ll come to yours for, what, 11ish?”

Phil manages a small laugh. “Most offices start at 9, I think.”

“Yeah, but I know for a fact you’re just as much of a night owl as me,” Dan argues, “Which means you can’t be a morning person as well, that would just be unfair to the rest of humanity.”

Phil lets out a huff of laughter.

“I mean,” Dan adds quickly, eyes sliding away from Phil’s, “You’ve already got an unfair advantage, looking like that and yet still being all nice and shit.”

Phil’s back straightens in surprise. He chooses not to comment, however, and instead goes back to sipping at his drink. There is a warm fluttering in his chest, though.

\---

After that, it becomes fairly normal for Dan to show up at Phil’s flat with his laptop under his arm, firmly claiming a place on Phil’s sofa. They work across from each other, often silently, sometimes filling the silences with noncommittal chattering and the odd coffee break. Phil buys some of the more expensive stuff when Dan makes a face at his mug one too many times, and Dan replaces the lactose-free milk he keeps using up from Phil’s supply.

It’s nice, and Phil thinks he may have gained a new friend.

At least, he _thinks_ Dan’s a friend. And yet Phil can’t deny the tugs of attraction he feels every time he looks across and sees Dan buried in his laptop, a small furrow in his forehead when he works, or the cute dimple that he sports when he’s holding back a smile, or the curls that he hides with a hat on the days he hasn’t straightened his hair.

Phil doesn’t know what to do with these feelings. They’re a little overwhelming – he hasn’t had a _crush_ in years, and wow does that phrase sound juvenile – so he just sort of tucks them away in his chest and folds himself around them, not exactly pushing them away, just not doing anything about them.

Dan, for his part, does nothing to suggest that he’s aware of what Phil’s feeling. His gaze sometimes lingers a little long, catching on Phil’s, and sometimes he’ll shuffle in close when Phil’s sitting next to him, their laptops adjacent but Dan just gently resting against Phil’s side, but they don’t talk about it. Phil likes the warm soft weight of Dan, so he doesn’t say anything for fear of making it go away. Dan, if he notices, seems content enough to let things pass.

They fall into a routine, and it’s nice. Phil learns some more about Dan, that he works at a furious rate once he gets going but actually getting to the process of writing is a long, difficult affair that occasionally leaves him with a dark look on his face. Phil doesn’t intrude, just makes him a warm drink and leaves it there in front of him, and then goes back to his laptop. Dan usually flashes him a grateful smile, but some days he just wordlessly reaches for the mug and curls his whole body around it, like he’s trying to make himself disappear.

Phil spends the times Dan isn’t around still going about his life, buying his groceries and going to meetings and spending time with his family. He’s headed back from dinner with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend (which he spent mostly dodging questions about who was taking up so much more of his time lately) when he stumbles in the porch of his apartment building, eyes falling on the shadow huddled up on the steps.

It’s dark, the streetlights casting a harsh orange glow, but Phil can still make out enough of the figure to know it’s Dan. Sitting out alone on the cold stone steps of their building, shivering and curled in on himself so tight it’s like he wants to disappear.

Phil doesn’t hesitate once he realises who is there. He heads straight over to Dan’s side and sits down next to him.

Dan rouses himself slightly, lifting his head, just the corner of one eye showing from the depths of his black scarf, beanie pulled firmly down over his head. He’s shivering, not wearing a coat, just a thin hoody.

Phil levels a frown at him. “You’re going to get a cold again if you stay out here like this.”

“Don’t.” Dan’s voice is muffled, cracked. He retreats back into the depths of his scarf. “Just, don’t even try it, Phil.”

Phil purses his lips, but doesn’t ask. He just settles in beside Dan, pushing the tips of his fingers between his squeezed-together legs, bunching his shoulders. He’d forgotten his gloves in his haste to meet Martyn earlier, and the tips of his ears are starting to ache with the cold. He leans a little into Dan’s side, grateful for the warmth but feeling him shivering.

Eventually, Dan’s muffled voice speaks up. “It’s stupid sitting out here, Phil, you should go inside.”

Phil raises a brow at him.

Dan rolls his eyes. “Yes, I _know_. But I’m allowed to be stupid.”

“And I’m not?” Phil huffs, knocking his knee gently against Dan’s. “Didn’t realise you had all the rights to stupidity.”

“Shut up,” Dan mumbles half-heartedly. “And go inside, it’s freezing.”

“I can tell from the amount of goosebumps on your face right now.” Phil leans forward, ignoring Dan, and instead shrugging out of his coat.

Dan watches with wide eyes as he gently drapes it around Dan’s shoulders. A crease appears in Dan’s brow, or what Phil can see of it, but at least Dan makes no move to pull the coat off.

“Did you just,” Dan says blankly.

“Yes,” Phil says firmly, and leans back into the step behind him, the tips of his ears going red. From the cold, Phil can pass it off as the cold if need be. The chill nips at his thin jumper, making his shivers increase.

Dan bites both his lips beneath the scarf, eyeing Phil closely. Then he gets to his feet.

Phil arches a brow at him.

“C’mon,” Dan mutters, pulling Phil’s coat on properly before making for the door. “If you’re going to be like _that_ , let’s just go inside.”

Phil bites back his victory smile, following after Dan without a word. He also doesn’t comment when Dan leads them straight to Phil’s flat, waiting for Phil to unlock the door before striding in like he owns the place. Phil likes it more than he should probably admit, watching Dan be so comfortable in his space.

Dan still doesn’t take Phil’s coat off, not even once Phil’s switched his heating on and got them both settled on the sofa with mugs of hot chocolate to tide them over. Instead he curls up in a corner, legs on the cushion, cold toes digging into Phil’s leg. Phil doesn’t complain, just watches him. “So, are you going to tell me why you felt the need to sit outside in below freezing temperatures?”

“I’m an adult, I can make bad decisions if I want,” Dan replies without missing a beat, He sips at his drink, avoids Phil’s determined gaze.

“Are you really going to leave it at that?” Phil asks flatly.

Dan shrugs.

“ _Dan_.” Phil leans closer for a minute, close to exasperated, but then he sits back instead and sighs, “Honestly, if I haven’t managed to show you by now that it’s ok to talk to me, then maybe we’ll just never get there.”

Dan frowns at him. “What, expecting something from me, Lester?”

“No, except for you to get it into your thick skull that I actually care about what happens to you,” Phil says in a moment of bravery. He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

Dan draws back for a moment, surprise covering his expression before it shifts into something more wicked. “Oh, you _care about me_ , huh?”

“Shut up.” Phil buries himself behind a cushion. “I’m not looking at you.”

“Sure, avoid the person you care about, that seems like a sensible course of action.”

“I hate you.”

“I didn’t want to be in my flat.”

Phil peers out from behind the cushion, confused. “Huh?”

“Why I was sat outside,” Dan explains, for once not avoiding Phil’s gaze. His dark eyes are steady on Phil’s. “Stayed inside too long, I think. The walls felt like they were closing around me.”

“So go to a coffee shop, or something,” Phil replies after a beat.

“Too many people.”

“Are people that bad?”

“Most people,” Dan agrees with a pointed look at Phil. “Most people are that bad. Not all, though.”

Phil desperately tries to stem the heat flooding the back of his neck. He coughs, but doesn’t twist away as he says, “Well, still doesn’t excuse why you’d feel the need to sit out in the cold.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Your lips have a blue tinge, Dan.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Dan rolls his eyes. “Besides, forget that, I want to hear more about how you supposedly _care about me_.”

“Brat.” Phil throws the cushion at Dan and sits up, reaching for his drink, ignoring the way his heart is picking up its pace in his chest. “Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

“I had an inkling,” Dan admits, looking away. “Wishful thinking, mostly. Therapist says I should be careful and manage my expectations, so.”

“Yeah, well, nothing to manage here.”

“Nothing?”

Phil looks over, meets Dan’s eyes, sees the question on his face. He bites his lip and pulls himself together, pulls himself together because his brother asked him questions all evening and he needs to stop this cycle of _Dan Dan Dan_ somehow and because he doesn’t ever want to find Dan sitting out alone in the cold ever again. “Nothing. I care about you, Dan, ok? I care about you.”

Dan looks over at him, eyes glittering, and Phil braces himself for the witty retort.

What he gets instead is Dan sliding over closer to him, knocking their elbows together affectionately, and murmuring, “Well, good job I care about you too, then, isn’t it?”

Phil almost chokes on his hot chocolate.

\---

Dan keeps coming over for their work sessions, which soon devolve into general hang-out sessions and then competitive shouting matches when Dan spots his collection of board games and the Nintendo switch that’s sticking out from under a pile of DVDs by his tv.

Dan is ferociously competitive, and annoyingly good at Mario Kart. It leads to a lot of colourful language late into the night, and Phil is sure that for once he’ll be the one getting noise complaints from his neighbours. He wonders briefly if anyone else ever complained to Dan about the noise from his speakers – although that had calmed down a bit recently. Phil’s sleep had been peacefully uninterrupted for several nights in a row.

Dan swears like a sailor, inventing new curses that Phil is sure would make his grandma’s toes curl, but to Phil it’s almost ridiculously endearing. The way Dan’s hair curls as he flops his head around, throwing his hands in the air when he’s overtaken by some other online player (probably from Japan) and finishes in seconds.

“Fucking _ridiculous_ ,” Dan finishes his tirade with a mumble, and then flops directly over so his head lands in Phil’s lap.

Phil freezes for a moment. They’ve slowly grown more tactile as they’ve known each other, but it’s usually Phil initiating touches, scratching at Dan’s arm when he isn’t getting enough attention or affectionately poking at his dimple, which he’d finally found the nerve to do two days ago.

Now, with Dan’s head in his lap, Phil is suddenly unsure what to do. His heart clenches in his chest before picking up speed at a ferocious rate.

“It’s unfaaair,” Dan whines. “I totally had him up until the last mushroom.”

“Yeah, well now you’ve made me finish last,” Phil reprimands half-heartedly, watching as his character zooms in at a sad last place. He places his controller down, and spends half-a-second just watching Dan curled up in his lap.

Then he reaches down and gently curls his fingers in Dan’s hair.

Dan doesn’t react straightaway, so Phil carefully runs his hand through Dan’s hair, watching the curls bounce back into place when he tugs at them. Dan’s hair is softer to touch than it looks.

Dan makes a noise of discontent when Phil pauses, and nudges his head rather determinedly back against Phil’s hand.

Phil makes a soft noise that might have been a coo, and runs his hair through Dan’s fringe.

“It’s probably rigged anyway,” Dan huffs, tossing his (well, Phil’s) controller across the living room. Phil watches it bounce on the carpet with a wince.

“It isn’t,” Phil disagrees mildly, “You’re just bitter that you actually lost for once.”

“ _Unfairly_.”

“What, 29 out of 30 isn’t enough for Mr Perfectionist?”

“No, it isn’t,” Dan sniffs, “And I’m going to continue to be bratty about it. Just to forewarn you.”

Phil snorts. “Sounds like you expect me to keep putting up with your crap.”

“Well,” Dan twists in his lap to look up at him, sending Phil a winning smile, “I _had_ hoped.”

Phil just makes a face back at him, but continues running his fingers through Dan’s hair. They haven’t defined what they are to each other, haven’t done much of anything the past few days really apart from work and play and gripe at each other, same as always. Just, Phil didn’t fight so hard to hide the fond looks he sent Dan’s way, and Dan didn’t hesitate as much to reciprocate them, either.

Glancing down at Dan curled up in his lap, Phil could only describe the feeling in his chest as _warm_. It tugged at him, almost suffocating, his heartbeat not exactly pounding but racing just enough to make itself known.

When Dan leans so far into his touches that he basically crawls into Phil’s lap, Phil squawks and swats at him. “You’re a bit big for this, Dan.”

“Shush your mouth,” Dan grumbles back, adjusting himself until he’s settled comfortably (and determinedly squashing Phil’s elbow). “I’ll sit where I want.”

“You’re a _brat_.” Phil tosses his head back against his sofa cushion in defeat. If he’s completely honest with himself, the warm weight of Dan in his lap is not actually entirely unwelcome. He enjoys knowing Dan is right there, enjoys running his fingers through Dan’s soft curls, especially enjoys the way Dan curls up into him so close it’s like he’s pressing himself against Phil in every possible way.

Dan’s still wearing Phil’s coat, and the fluff around the hood keeps tickling Phil’s nose (because Dan really _is_ a bit too big for this) so Phil moves his head back off the sofa rest, grumbling in the back of his throat.

Dan turns to send him a smirk, and then his face is much, much closer than Phil expected.

His heart contracts, and then races faster than before. His breath hitches before he can catch himself, but Dan doesn’t seem to notice, pausing in whatever he was going to say as his gaze catches onto Phil’s.

Dan, precariously balanced in his lap, face just inches away, and Phil’s just… stuck.

Dan nervously licks his lower lip, tongue darting out for barely a second, but it’s enough to catch Phil’s attention and he _swallows_. Dammit. There goes any chance of playing this cool.

This time, Dan does notice, his gaze flicking up to Phil’s before dropping lower, and then, before Phil can catch his breath, Dan is leaning in.

The first press of his mouth against Phil’s is soft, questioning. Phil answers with a hastily let out breath and the tightening of his hold on the sleeve of Dan’s jumper, steadying him in place as he leans in slowly, eyes falling shut, mouth slowly finding Dan’s.

Dan’s a good kisser. That much is obvious, even as they keep things slow, gentle, and mostly chaste. (Well, mostly. Phil might nip at Dan’s lower lip, and Dan might make a soft noise that has Phil’s thoughts spiralling, but he reigns himself in and keeps things soft and careful, at least for this first time). Dan’s fingers on his chest, clinging at the material of his shirt, the weight of him as he leans into Phil in danger of unseating himself, all remind Phil that this is _real_ , happening now and not just in his head.

He pulls back after a moment, but Dan chases him and whines until he relents and leans back in, pressing another soft kiss to Dan’s lips.

Dan makes a pleased noise and leans in, in danger of actually unbalancing them, so Phil pulls back again and reaches for Dan’s hips.

Dan whines pitifully.

“Shush,” Phil huffs, but there’s a soft fond warmth hiding obviously behind his tone. “Hold still, I’m just making sure you don’t fall off.”

“I’m not going to _fall_ ,” Dan scoffs, but he still sits still enough for Phil to adjust them until he’s lying back against the armrest with Dan sprawled across him. Dan rolls his eyes and leans down close, biting his lip and looking Phil in the eyes. “Happy now?”

“So happy,” Phil answers, and tugs Dan back against him.

They kiss until Phil loses track of time, until Dan melts against him completely and the weight should probably be suffocating and is a little bit uncomfortable if he’s honest, his foot went to sleep what feels like hours ago and his neck is sore from the awkward angle, but he wouldn’t move for the world. Not when Dan is warm and making happy little contented sounds with every new press of their lips.

Eventually, they stop kissing and Dan simply tucks his face into Phil’s chest and makes himself comfortable. Phil lets out a low chuckle and winds his arms around Dan, holding him close, allowing himself this moment of warmth. He hasn’t had something go this smoothly in goodness knew how long, hardly dared to expect this one to continue. Something is going to go wrong. Something always does, eventually.

But still, lying here holding Dan, it’s hard to pay attention to any negative thought that might flick through his brain.

Dan shifts after a moment, sitting up slightly. This time it’s Phil that chases after him, making a low noise of discontent and pulling Dan in again.

“Phil,” Dan chuckles, the first time they’ve spoken in too long. He presses his palm flat against Phil’s chest. “It’s getting late, I should – I don’t live here.”

“Well observed,” Phil says, and tugs Dan down to him again.

Dan rolls his eyes, pressing more firmly. “I’ll come back. In the morning. I just – it’s late.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Of course.” Dan’s tone is steady. “As long as I’m welcome.”

Phil sends him a pointed glance, but softens when Dan avoids meeting his eyes. He lets out a soft huff, smiling. “What, do you think I’m gonna kiss you and then kick you out?”

“I mean,” Dan glances at him finally, biting his lip. “I hope not?”

“Of course not, you insecure idiot.” Phil brings him in close again, kisses him softly. “Come back tomorrow. We can – I mean, we could get coffee? Or just. I don’t know.”

Dan snorts. “That’s the worst getting asked out I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you saying no?”

“Well—”

“Are you saying no, Dan.”

“No, of course not.”

“Well then,” Phil says smugly, “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Insufferable prick.” Dan smacks him on the chest before standing up.

Phil gets up too, follows him to the door. Just before Dan goes to step out, Phil catches his hand and pulls him in again. “You’re still wearing my coat.”

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” Dan turns to him with a glint in his eye, leans in and kisses him. Phil’s eyes flutter closed, and he chases Dan’s mouth when Dan pulls away again.

“Tomorrow,” Dan laughs, but his words are a promise. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Phil lets him go with his pulse still racing, but a warm feeling settled in his chest.

That night, the music doesn’t rumble through his walls. Instead, Phil hears the high, clear notes of a piano being played, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

\---

Phil wakes up the next morning with his heart in his mouth and his nerves all wired. He isn’t one hundred percent sure if everything that happened the night before is even real, or if his mind managed to concoct one hell of a realistic dream. He doesn’t have any proof of it, his phone is silent, there is no trace of Dan on his sofa when he checks.

But then Phil glances at his coat-rack and realises his coat is still missing.

Warmth floods him from head-to-toe. He finds himself biting back a ridiculous smile as he goes to the kitchen and fills up the kettle, reaching for the coffee (and some of Dan’s expensive blend, making it just how Dan likes). He waits for the water to boil with thoughts of warm lips and soft curls.

He has two steaming mugs ready when there is a knock at the door.

Ridiculously, Phil straightens his shirt and pats down his hair before going to answer, despite already checking his outfit three times. Dan had just said _tomorrow_ , not what time, and it’s still morning, early for both of them, but Phil couldn’t be happier that he’s here now. At least, he presumes this will be Dan.

Phil answers the door with his heart in his mouth and his pulse racing, but it calms the instant he sees Dan’s nervous face on the other side.

Dan swallows, shifting, and his hands are behind his back.

Phil tilts his head. “What have you got there?”

“Nothing,” Dan blurts, and then shoves Phil’s coat at him as he strides through the door. “Is one of those for me?”

“Yeah,” Phil answers distractedly, looking up to see Dan headed straight for the coffee mugs. He glances back down at his coat and goes to hang it on the rack when something falls out of it onto the floor.

Phil blinks, looking down at the bundle by his feet. “Flowers?”

“Yeah,” Dan replies, obviously trying his best to sound nonchalant.

Phil bites back a smile as he bends down to scoop them up. “You bought me flowers?”

“Shitty supermarket ones because I had to run out this morning,” Dan says all in a rush, “And normally I’d spend way more, but – well, you kind of surprise me last night.”

Phil huffs out a laugh. “You aren’t the only one.” He turns the bundle over, smiling at the small notecard that simply says _from Dan_ and nothing else. “You bought me flowers.”

“Yeah, well,” Dan mumbles, and when Phil looks over he’s twisting his fingers together nervously. “I figured one of us should do this whole dating thing properly.”

Phil laughs, the sound bright, and he reaches over to drag Dan in and give him a kiss. Dan makes a soft contented noise and Phil is very pleased that he didn’t imagine that happening.

He pulls away after a moment and heads to the kitchen. “Hang on, I think I’ve got a glass big enough to fit them in.”

“That isn’t a glass, it’s a vase,” Dan says flatly when he watches Phil get it out of the cupboard.

“No, it’s a glass.”

“It’s clearly a vase. Why is there a vase in your glass cupboard?”

“Shut up.” Phil sets the flowers on the side after filling the vase (glass) with water. “And you were doing so well with bringing me these.”

Dan pouts in the corner. “Does that mean I don’t get that date?”

Phil rolls his eyes and scoops up his mug. “Drink your coffee and we’ll see.”

Dan makes a show of taking a long gulp.

Phil laughs, but sets his mug down too and reaches for Dan’s hand. “Ok then. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t mind,” Phil answers honestly, “As long as it’s with you.”

Dan looks at him, the moment holding for a second, before he snorts. “That was cheesy as fuck.”

“Watch it, you.” Phil entwines their fingers and heads for his coat rack. “Still date pending until we reach the door, so best behaviour.”

“Well.” Dan tightens his grip around Phil’s hand and smiles softly. “Good job I plan on sticking around, then, isn’t it?”

Phil doesn’t answer, but his heart hums happily in response. He’s secretly hoping that Dan sticks around for a long, long while yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Come bug me on tumblr, url is ineverhadmyinternetphase


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